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| I went home this weekend...spent a few nights at my
parents' place, a house that I haven't lived in for longer than a month
or two at a time...and I spent one night and three hundred bucks in the
heart of Chicago Korea-town.
It's always the same story when i
go back to Chicago: I take a late flight in, I get a rental, while my
mother waits at home, preparing a quick dinner of some of my favorite
foods (king crab, sushi, and sometimes, beef short-ribs).
My
father's dietary requirements prevent him from eating too much at
night, and my mother insists she gets more sustenance from watching me
enjoy my meal. So we sit around the dinner table and they watch me eat.
But it's not as creepy as it sounds, really.
Small talk is made.
They ask about school, about my job, about life in San Antonio. Whether
or not I'd found a church I'm comfortable with. Dinner winds down and
we eventually get to money. They try to give me a hefty stack of
twenties. Then the words "I'm a real man now" came out of my mouth.
I'm standing on my own two feet, I say. I make enough to support my
ardent spending habits...then I go out and I use my paycheck to
extinguish friends' thirst for alcohol.
Laughingly, they asked
why I would say such a thing. I replied that I didn't believe a man
should have to receive monetary support from his parents. While I
mostly scraped by during college, my parents still had to throw me a
little cash every now and again to help pay for unexpected car repairs
or condoms.
And while I (kind of, sort of) enjoyed my last job,
I wondered how on earth I could ever do this for the rest of my life. I
didn't want to have to, as one of my co-workers did, drive 140 miles
every day and work under some chode so that he could afford a backyard
for his boys. I mean, I guess a lot of people do it. A lot do it on a
lot less, even. But I like to have a good margin of error and if you've
been reading this blog or know me in real life, you know:
a) I have expensive tastes
b) I'll be damned if I'll ever have a month in which I debate paying child support or rent.
One
of the reasons I'm so thankful to have gotten away from my parents at
the age of 18, is that I've had independent financial security as long
as I've been able to buy porn. Assuming all goes according to plan I
can support my parents and, once I decide to settle down with a trophy
wife, maybe I'll take care of my own family as well. And that makes me
feel, for lack of any fancy words, good... | | |
| An Unsuccessful Trip to McDonald's
As I left the Home Depot this afternoon, I was grossed out by what I saw. It was what appeared to be a family sitting outside on a stoop, eating french fries out of take-away containers. The children were perched atop a dumpster lid.
What kind of mother would put their children atop a dumpster lid?
I was almost tempted to say something but I thought better of it...
Then, I sped across the parking lot into the McDonald's to get some fries because that's just how my simple mind works. I see something, I want it, I go buy it.
I crossed the street and saw another child perched atop something: his father's shoulders. The father was perhaps a Spaniard: his speech was most likely tinged with the hint of a Romance language that probably melts women's bras just by rolling his "r". He may be in search of a six fingered man who killed his father.
Anyway, his son inherited his father's mane of unruly, curly hair.Both wore it well. They had matching camoflauge bags- the father was sporting a messenger bag and the son wore a Dickies backpack.
...It was a classic summer scene that one would quickly forget and the other would always cherish.
I must have been tired from those three Ziegenbocks last night. Even with a small child perched atop his head, the father was easily out-pacing me on my way into McDonald's. No disrespect to that American Beauty bag flying scene, but it was one of the most beautiful scenes I've ever seen. I was hoping that I could hold open the heavy McDonald's door for them and high-five the boy as he passed.
They continued into McDonald's as I almost got hit by a car trying to park next to me. I left without going into McDonald's. I no longer wanted fries. I wanted a child to perch himself upon my shoulders.
I came home, put a pot of water up on the stove for some macaroni and cheese, which I accidentally left burning for the last twenty minutes. I called my father for all of a minute--he's taken up pottery and spends a lot of his time trying to keep the lawn from going brown- but it was very nice to have a conversation that lasted longer than, "Here's your mother." Which would not be a valid excuse because my mother's in Korea.
To the children who dine atop dumpsters or see the world from their father's shoulders: you should remember and cherish the endless summer nights, but you are too young to take such lessons to heart. Heck, you probably won't even hear about Mike Kim for a few more years.
So instead I ask you to at least wash your hands before eating. | | |
| Missed me? Then aim higher.
I think this is the longest time that I've gone without posting on Xanga. I wonder if anyone reads this anymore? Either way, I will once again, join the ranks of non-Tila Tequila friends of Xanga. Anyway, my Myspace?...my Space?...whatever...has gotten terribly creepy therefore, I will post nothing more than fuzzy, indiscrete pictures on it from now on of my exuberant partying habits and rock hard abs, taken from weird camera angles, as I contort myself into positions that would make a pretzel jealous. So at this point, I've been in San Antonio for three years...three...very...long...years. I hate this place~ For the longest time, I hated Chicago, simply because I lived there. Now, there's a possibility that I may even miss it to some extent. It wasn't that bad. Richard Daley knows what he's doing. For instance, Chicagoans get usable parks, a real beach (none of that stab-yourself-with-a-hypodermic-needle-and-get-AIDS crap like the Gulf), tons of public art installations from Picasso, and Pot Belly's sandwiches. Jimmy John's ok, too. And right next to it in Evanston, there's Buffalo Joe's. And Chicago has bike trails. Sure, I haven't ridden one since I was fifteen, but I enjoy the option of being able to ride my bike if needed. A decent one bedroom apartment in San Francisco or Manhattan costs close to a million dollars. A high-rise in Chicago can cost less than $400,000, and an added bonus of living without the constant fear of getting jihaded upon. Chicago's cab drivers speak real English, Chicago's women can be described as "sturdy" and "practical"...like Amish furniture or an American four-door sedan. Chicago doesn't play mind games with you, such as "will this bum stab me" or..."is that guy staring at me with his lazy eye(s)?" And then, there's San Antonio. I don't know the mayor's name. Parks here look like an apocalyptic aftermath. Barefeet beachwalking will possibly wipe out your white blood cells. Public art installations are created to resemble something sensual like "gang signs" and "gang rapes." San Antonio has Bill Miller's Barbecues and Barnacle Bill's Seafood.. For those that are fortunate enough to have never tasted anything from either of Bill's establishments, let me clarify... That I would rather eat dog food, and maybe even the dog, rather than eat Bill Miller's or Barnacle Bill's. San Antonio has bike trails, but chances are, you will be run over by a drunk Mexican or drunk high school football coach in a truck. Cab drivers...apparently "airport" in Spanish means "middle of nowhere." San Antonio's women can be described as "not wearing her right size" or "pregnant teenager." Oh, how I miss Chicago... | | |
| Losing Nemo
Sorry to all my loyal readers. I haven't been up to date lately. The computer that I was previously using passed away and is now in computer heaven, AKA the dumpster down the street. My previous computer, which was named "Nemo," was a bastard child concocted by yours truly, for a mere $400 dollars, and it lasted me for three years before its sudden demise.
Who knows what happened? Maybe the other computers humiliated it to the point of suicide by its meager 1.4 gigabyte processor speed? Maybe the other computers got jealous of its 120 gigs of pirated movies and music and assassinated it...or whatever...who knows...
So my new computer from Dell just came in. If my $400 dollar computer can outlast my new one, then I think Michael Dell may have a serious competitor...me.
Anyway, I think February's a pretty good month. Why? Because smack dab in the middle of February is Valentine's Day, that most sacred institution of greeting card manufacturers worldwide. When else is it perfectly acceptable to give a girl a candy heart with stalkerish messages like "Be Mine" and "You changed your phone number again!?" and "I can see you through your window..."
The answer? Rarely, if ever. But as much as I detest being forced to buy all my baby mamas gifts and dinners, I also kind of like all the "Love Is" comics and little images of murderous, fat babies shooting arrows at an unsuspecting passerby. I guess I'm just a romantic that way.
Valentine's Day is a chance to put your heart out on the line, get humiliated and laughed at by everyone in a fancy Italian restaurant with a name you can't pronounce, and drink yourself so silly that you end up in your boxers on her front lawn singing a brutal acapella version of Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything for Love."
If that's not love, then hell, I guess I was never in love...
Happy belated Valentine's Day everyone, and God bless~
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